The Maid of Ireland (9 page)

“What’s that?” Tom Gandy sat on the ground an arm’s length away.

“Nothing,” said Wesley. “Just a nightmare.”

The band rode off, hooves and boots thudding on the sodden ground. Caitlin rode at the head, her slim body encased in armor, her veil fluttering like a banner over her hair, the golden harp on her black cotte flashing in the waning light.

“She cuts quite a figure,” said Tom.

“Indeed she does.”

“I’m to stay back as your guard.” Tom opened a wicker basket. “Not that you need guarding, the way Rory bound your hands.”

Wesley tried to flex his bloodless fingers. “I won’t tax your skills,” he said.

“Good.” Tom dug in the basket. “For I’m no match for a great hulking fellow like you—at least, not physically.” Pausing, he drew something from the folds of his belt.

Wesley gasped. It was a lock of Titus Hammersmith’s hair. “I consider myself forewarned,” he said.

Tom smiled, tucked away the prize, and handed Wesley a crumbling biscuit. The morsel was mealy and gray, probably from the potatoes that had been added to stretch the flour.

The biscuit dropped from his numb fingers. His stomach contracted with a pang of hunger. “I can’t eat with my hands so tightly bound,” he said.

Tom helped himself to a biscuit. “You know, the Irish prisoners seized at Ballyshannon were made to eat off the ground with their hands tied behind their backs.”

“No, I didn’t know,” said Wesley.

“Lucky for you, I’m a compassionate man.” Tom’s thick fingers pried at the knots.

Wesley tensed in readiness to attack. He didn’t relish the idea of pitting his own strength against a dwarf but his situation was desperate.

“Ah, but you mustn’t even think of that,” said Tom Gandy, aiming a glance over Wesley’s shoulder.

Wesley craned his neck. Several yards away sat a thick-set man idly swinging, as if it were a shepherd’s whistle, the largest sledgehammer Wesley had ever seen. His other arm was in a sling.

The man tugged a curly black forelock in a mock salute.

“That’s Liam the smith,” said Tom. “I believe you broke his arm last night.”

“How do you do?” Wesley called.

Liam scowled at his bad arm.

“Lucky for you, he’s mute,” said Tom, “or you’d hear a fine stream of curses from him.”

Resigned, and not a little worried about Liam the smith’s thoughts on guarding the man who had wounded him, Wesley sat still while Tom loosened the rope. Hot blood fed the tips of his fingers. The stinging pain reminded him of the day he had been drawn on a hurdle from the Tower to Tyburn.

How far he had come since that day. Yet he seemed no closer to his goal. Laura remained Cromwell’s hostage. The blade of his cruelty hung over her tender neck, ready to fall the moment Wesley failed.

He ate several biscuits and drank some rough beer. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he said, “What makes her think a dozen men can defeat Hammersmith’s legions?”

“A dozen less two,” said Tom. “She’s done it before. And it’s not a matter of defeating them, but of outsmarting them.”

“Was the Fianna her idea?”

“Saints, no.” Tom laughed. “’Twas the idea of Finn MacCool, in the time before time.”

“But was resurrecting it her idea?” Wesley asked.

“Aye. The notion came on her when the
Sassenach
burned our fishing boats. They’d already stolen most of our cattle, so there was no leather for making new curraghs. There was nothing for it, she decided, but to go to war.”

“Not a common accomplishment for a young woman.”

“My friend, there is nothing common about Caitlin MacBride.”

“I know.”

“Don’t ever forget it.”

“I doubt she’ll let me. But why is she the leader?”

“You’ve seen her in action. Men follow her like lemmings over a cliff.”

With a prickle of apprehension, Wesley realized that Tom Gandy was parting easily with his answers. Which could only mean they had no intention of letting him go. “Do you happen to know what she has in store for me?”

Tom rocked back on his heels and let out a hoot of laughter. “Faith, if I told you that, you’d never believe me! Neither would Caitlin.” He jumped up and scurried away.

Wesley lay back, staring at the clouds rushing over the moon. He was wet and sore, a madwoman’s prisoner, and yet for reasons he couldn’t fathom, a sense of peace invaded his soul.

His gaze picked out little Tom Gandy, who was having a one-sided conversation in Gaelic with the blacksmith.

The man must be a witch, thought Wesley, beginning the slow glide into slumber. Something niggled at him, a voice speaking secrets in his head, a plan of sorts....

* * *

“You care nothing for my feelings!” Magheen tossed back her silky hair. “If you did, Caitlin, you’d find some way to make Logan see reason.”

“Blessed angels, I have tried,” said Caitlin. She was weary from the campaign. They had been back at Clonmuir only a day. Magheen had started haranguing her the moment she’d stepped through the gates. “I offered him a share of the new stores, but he refused.”

“I’ve half a mind to tell him where the provisions came from,” Magheen threatened.

“You wouldn’t! Magheen, please—”

“Ah, Caitlin.” Magheen laid a hand on her arm. “’Tis my temper speaking for my mind. I’ve seen you feed half the district on English victuals. I’ll not interfere, I promise. Are you sure he wouldn’t settle for a nice barrel of salt beef?”

Caitlin eyed her beauteous sister meaningfully. “Logan wishes a more lasting dowry, not one that could be consumed in a few meals.”

“But what about me?” wailed Magheen, drawing the attention of everyone in the hall, including Hawkins, who lounged near the central hearth. He might have been a visiting lord, so relaxed and comfortable did he look—except for the sixty-pound cannonball soldered to a chain and shackled to his left foot.

Caitlin turned a gaze of longing to the untouched meal on her trencher. “I’m trying my best, Magheen,” she said evenly. “But I’ve yet to see
you
try.”

“What the devil do you mean by that?” she demanded.

“Do you love Logan Rafferty?”

“St. Brendan’s spirit, you know I do.”

“Then if that’s so,” said Caitlin, “why do you refuse him your bed?”

“It’s a matter of pride, Caitlin. You know that. The price Logan demanded for me was humiliatingly grand. If you’d told me before the wedding, I never would have married him. I shouldn’t need a dowry at all. He ought to be grateful to have me alone.”

“Your portion is paltry even if we abide by the old laws, which Logan has ceased to do.” Her point made, Caitlin picked up her knife. Before she could spear the piece of meat her stomach had been screaming for, Curran’s shrill whistle shrieked from the gate tower. With a sigh, she set down her knife and went to greet the newcomers.

They were heartbreakingly familiar: a fisherman from Slyne Head and his rag-clad family. The English had burned the man’s fishing boat and driven the family from their home.

His wife had a hollow-eyed look Caitlin recognized. The unspoken horrors she had seen were somehow more vivid than if she had described them in detail.

“Took the lay priest, too,” the fisherman lamented. “Bagged him like a partridge and carted him off to God knows where.”

Smiling through tears of pity, Caitlin welcomed the family and offered them food and shelter. Weariness plodded with her as she returned to her seat at the round table. Her meal would be cold, but she was past caring.

Just as she seated herself, an argument erupted at the end of the hall. “It’s mine, I tell you, I seized it fair and square!” Conn tugged at the long English musket Rory held.

Exasperated, Caitlin pushed away from the uneaten meal.

“Only after I slew the peeler it belonged to,” Rory retorted. “Take your hands off my spoils.”

“Stop it, both of you,” said Caitlin. From the corner of her eye she saw Hawkins sit forward in frank interest. Discomfited by her prisoner’s attention, she pried Rory’s fingers from the musket and set the gun aside.

“I nearly got myself killed battling the devil,” said Rory. “The musket’s mine by rights.”

“I clapped eyes on it first,” Conn said heatedly.

“How could you, when it was aimed at my own head?”

Caitlin looked from Rory’s fierce red-bearded face to Conn’s equally fierce dark one. Over the months since she’d organized the Fianna she had learned one unassailable truth of leadership. Be decisive. Never let them see you at a loss. Or in a mistake. Hawkins had been her blunder.

Yet her mind was a blank. The problem with Magheen, the new refugees, the details of dividing up the spoils of the raid, her father’s blithe indifference, and especially Hawkins’s bemused scrutiny all seemed to swamp her like a storm-driven tide.

“Well?” asked Rory, glaring at Conn.

“Well?” asked Conn, glaring at Caitlin.

“I...really, you’re two grown men. Sure it’s unbecoming to bicker and—”

“The musket’s useless,” said a smooth quiet voice.

Caitlin swung toward Hawkins. “Not that it’s any of your business, but just how would you be knowing that?”

He shrugged and reached for his mug of poteen. “The firing pan’s missing, the bayonet’s broken off in the plug, and the barrel’s bent.”

“’Tisn’t bent,” Rory grumbled.

“Look closer, my friend. The first time a man attempts to fire it, it’ll blow up in his face.”

Scowling, Rory took the musket from Caitlin and sighted down the barrel. “Damn.” He rubbed his shoulder. “The English devil did wallop me right smart with it.”

Caitlin found herself suppressing a grin. Rory Breslin was one of the few men whose shoulder could do damage to iron. With a chagrined expression, he passed the gun to Conn. “It’s yours if you want it. I’ll stick with my hand ax. No danger of that ever blowing up in my face.”

“No, thanks.” Conn set aside the musket.

“Give it to Liam the smith,” said Hawkins. “Maybe he can use the parts for scrap.”

Tom Gandy giggled drunkenly and swept his arm toward Hawkins. “Sure isn’t he full of brains.”

“Hasn’t he the knob of the world on his head!” Rory added.

“The high learning be at him, praise be to St. Patrick and St. Dymphna!” Conn thumped Hawkins none too gently on the back.

With undenied pleasure, Caitlin watched a flush sweep over the Englishman’s face. He had outthought two warriors, and they would be long in forgetting it.

“Caitlin!” Darrin Mudge, a smallholder from the district, called across the hall. “This English wine is spoiled. Won’t even make a decent vinegar, while the
cruiskeen
you gave Duffy is smooth as silk.”

She folded her lips with displeasure. Mudge was the last remaining neighbor to possess sheep and cattle, which he prized with the possessiveness of the sidhe with a dead soul.

“’Tain’t fair, I say! What good be raiding if we get no decent spirits?” Mudge persisted.

Heaving a sigh, Caitlin realized she’d not have a chance to eat her meal tonight. Each time she finished settling one dispute, another came chasing at its heels.

God in heaven, she thought. Will not one person let me savor my victory?

To her utter astonishment, Hawkins raised his mug in a blatant salute. He said nothing, only looked at her with knowing eyes, offering her a momentary haven from the myriad demands that claimed her. He of all those present asked for nothing. Not that he had any right, but still, for the instant that their gazes were locked, she felt an odd sense of peace.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smile that caused her heart to thump loudly in her ears.

No. She couldn’t soften just because he had a pretty face and a way of reading her emotions. He was her prisoner, her enemy. Soon she would have to decide what to do with him.

She returned to the table and sat down. Just then her father stood, dashing her last hopes of eating her supper. How magnificent he looked, with his beautiful white beard plaited, and the tumbled stones on his tunic gleaming in the rushlight. His face was smooth and ageless, for the years did not trouble Seamus MacBride. When Siobhan had been alive, she’d done his worrying for him. After that, Caitlin had.

He banged his mug on the table.

Now what? Caitlin wondered.

“MacBride!” someone shouted, and others joined the salute. “MacBride, Clonmuir and Ireland!”

Just as if, Caitlin thought with a twinge of annoyance, Seamus himself had led them to victory.

Acknowledging the salute with a regal nod of his head, Seamus cleared his throat. “My friends, my family. Ach,
musha,
but you do me honor. Soon, the Lord and his angels be willing, I will attempt to return that honor.”

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Feeling conspicuous, Caitlin moved to a nearby bench. Her father had that stubborn light in his clear eyes, the look that told her he had set himself on a path from which he would not swerve.

“Ill tidings have come from Slyne Head,” said Seamus. “And it’s not the first we’ve heard. A great scourge is sweeping over Eireann and taking our most precious treasure. Our men of God.”

Heads bobbed in grim acknowledgment.

“Our priests are disappearing.” Despair tore at Seamus’s voice. “God alone knows what is happening to them. Some run before the sword of the English scourge, hiding out in bogs and secret dales. Others abandon their raiments for common disguises. But those are the fortunate ones. Too many are caught, informed upon by cursed bounty hunters. I know not if they are transported to England and tortured, set adrift to drown at sea, or exiled to Spain.”

“The
Sassenach
tortures them,” Rory stated.

“And eats their parts for breakfast,” Brian added with a shudder.

“A notion is on me.” Seamus clasped his hands to his chest. “They are not all dead. God would not be so cruel. I believe these priests who have been seized are collected at some spot and held like convicts.”

Fists shook in outrage. Caitlin felt her attention drawn to Hawkins. He listened avidly, curiosity burning in his eyes.

“By the silver hair of my honor,” Seamus declared, “I vow I shall find these misplaced men of God.”